


i wanna walk like you, talk like you, too

by ellispage21



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-06-18 19:49:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15493374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispage21/pseuds/ellispage21
Summary: there's an accident. two causalities. nobody is really sure what happened. they're both fine. grantaire and enjolras are back to normal,aren't they?





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t the blaring noise of the sirens that woke Grantaire, nor was it the flickering lights over his head. It was the rattling of the stretcher as he was boarded onto the ambulance.

“I think he’s regaining some consciousness,” a distended voice said above him, “hello mate, can you hear me?”

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut tighter and grumbled from low in his throat. His head was aching more than he think it ever had.

“Heartbeat and respiration both stable.”

He wanted to sleep for a million years.

The doors were yanked open, and he was rolled quickly down a ramp, feeling the warm blankets shift on his bare feet. Where the hell were his socks?

“I take it this is the head wound?”

The same voice from before agreed, and said, “Adult male between eighteen and twenty-five approximately. Found in the street by friends, unresponsive. Head injury on the right side, measuring four and a half inches. Morphine given at scene, bandages applied.”

The pounding refused to subside.

“Right, okay. Thanks. Check for fractures along the spine and ribcage, full CT scan to rule out haemorrhages. Push 30 milligrams of phenobarbital in case of seizure. Clear?”

The group surrounding Grantaire murmured and he felt a prick in the back of his hand. He wanted to pull it away but found himself being held down. The lights on the ceiling burnt through his eyelids and he allowed the darkness to drag him to sleep.

 

 

Courfeyrac chewed on his nails, face grey. At his side, Marius flipped listlessly through a gardening magazine, feet bouncing off the floor in a desperate attempt to remain composed.

A nurse approached them at 1PM on the dot, after a torturous four hour wait, “hi, would you like to come with me?”

Marius leapt up, “yes, yes. Is he okay? We have been so worried.”

Courfeyrac was quick on his heels, “I can’t believe this has happened. It’s so unlike him.”

She smiled and gestured for them to follow her through a set of double doors, “I think he’ll be glad to see you both.”

 

“Oh, shit.” Courfeyrac inhaled sharply, “Look at him.”

His head was bandaged up and his right eye was black. Tubes spilled out of his arms, connecting him to various machines and drips. He’d looked better, it had to be said.

“What happened?” Marius sat down in the chair next to his bed, as a doctor pulled the curtain closed around them, “you never go to that part of town.”

His eyes opened slowly, painfully, and a frown furrowed his brow, “I do.”

“No, you don’t. You live on the other side of the city. What were you thinking? I’m so happy you’re alright.”

“How’s your head?” Courfeyrac finally asked, interrupting Marius in his spiel.

“It hurts.”

He reached over and rubbed the arm with the least needles in it, “what happened, Enj?”

“Enj?”

Marius tipped his head to the side, “yes. That’s you?”

“No,” he said, eyes squinted in confusion, “I’m Grantaire.”

 

In the chaos that resulted, the emergency aid button was pressed not one but four (4) times, and a flurry of doctors came scuttling in. Grantaire was wheeled away, protesting angrily that this must have been a sick joke, and sent for more tests on his head, to check for amnesia.

 

“Your friends that came to visit you, do you remember their names?”

Grantaire rolled his one good eye, “Marius and Courfeyrac. I’ve told you, my memory is fine.”

The microphone crackled, and he guessed that they were discussing his answer. He stared up at the MRI machine encapsulating him and sighed.

“Alright, we’re bringing you out. Hold tight.”

 

“His memory really is fine.” The head neurologist in charge of Grantaire’s case told them, “We have done every scan, every test that there is. He has some swelling on his brain given the nature of his injury, but nothing that would impede upon his memory in the way you’re suggesting.”

Courfeyrac rubbed the back of his neck, “I don’t understand. He’s Enjolras. That’s his name.”

The doctor pursed his lips, and crossed his hands on the desk, “that isn’t what he is telling us, and he’s being pretty adamant about it. It’s likely he has some moderate concussion, I recommend waiting until that has subsided: I imagine he will be back to normal by then.”

“And his memory is definitely fine?” Marius asked, eyes wide in confusion, “Nothing wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he shrugged his shoulders, and got up to leave, “We’ve stitched his head wound up, what he needs now is bedrest and some ice on his eye.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Marius shook his hand, and placed the other on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, “we should get him home.”

“The only problem is,” Courfeyrac turned to face him, “which home do we take him to?”

 

 

“Are you serious?”

Courfeyrac nodded grimly, “they had to cut them off, sorry. We didn’t know if you’d broken something serious.”

“I might have a jacket in my car?” Marius offered, and Grantaire put his head in his hands.

Courfeyrac mouthed at him to fetch it, and pulled back the blankets on the bed, “we better get you stood up.”

Grantaire held onto his arm weakly and lifted a trembling leg up and down onto the floor. It was cold and smooth beneath his feet, an uncomfortable contrast to the warm sheets he had been under for most of that day.

“Without sounding like a dick,” Grantaire began, and Courfeyrac knew he would indeed sound like one, “why are _you_ here?”

“We found you,” Courfeyrac frowned as he helped Grantaire to steady himself against the bedframe, “who else would be here?”

Grantaire shrugged, “I don’t know. Joly, Bossuet maybe, Éponine. I’m not saying we aren’t friends, but…”

He narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath, “We’re best friends.”

Grantaire tried to hide his confusion and failed, “uh—”

“Listen,” Courfeyrac shushed him as Marius reappeared in the doorway, holding a blazer and some neon yellow cycling shorts, “you’ve had a nasty bump, we’ll talk later.”

Grantaire allowed himself to be manhandled into the cycling shorts and tugged on the jacket. He was surprised when it fit him, as he had always assumed himself to be much bigger than Marius but didn’t dwell on it.

“I imagine I’ve looked more dignified.” He scoffed, looking down at the tight shorts, but before anyone could respond a registrar arrived with a wheelchair and he was pushed to the car in abject silence.

Once safely strapped in, he stretched back against the seat and prodded at his bandaged head, causing a few drops of blood to seep through the dressing. Courfeyrac spotted him in the rear-view mirror, “don’t play with it. You need to rest.”

Grantaire grunted but closed his eyes all the same. The drive to his apartment from the hospital wasn’t a long one.

 

Over an hour had passed by the time they arrived at Enjolras’ flat, and Grantaire was knocked out on the back seat, his bruised eye darkening progressively with every minute that passed.

“Don’t wake him.” Courfeyrac warned Marius as they opened the car door, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders and half-carrying, half-dragging him into the building.

They dropped him gently on the sofa and unfolded the soft throw blanket that lived on the old armchair. Tucking it up to his armpits, Marius glanced at Courfeyrac.

“Do we just… I mean, do we leave? Will he be alright?”

Courfeyrac shrugged, “I don’t know. I think so?”

They spent the next few minutes having a debate about it in hushed whispers, and finally decided that they would check on him in the morning, as it was unlikely he would crack his head open falling from the sofa onto the carpet.

 

 

An incessant shaking woke Grantaire up nine hours later and his eyes gradually adjusted to his surroundings. Kneeling less than 15cm away from his face was Combeferre, and Grantaire yelped in surprise.

“Hey, hey.” Combeferre leant back on his heels, arms raised in surrender, “It’s just me.”

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire demanded, struggling to get his heartrate under 130.

“Wha…” Combeferre frowned, “What are you talking about? I live here.”

“I—what? No, what are _you_ talking about?”

“Enj, what happened to your head?”

Grantaire grimaced, “Combeferre, it’s me. Has everyone gone blind?”

“I know it’s you. What?”

“What?” Grantaire echoed, and they both stared at each other.

“So… are you going to tell me what happened to your head?”

Grantaire opened his mouth to speak but closed it again quickly.

“Hello? Earth to Enjolras?”

He snapped, “what the hell is going on? It’s me, Combeferre. Grantaire?”

Combeferre snorted, “uhh, ok? What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing!”

He shook his head, and offered a hand for Grantaire to take, “come with me.”

“No, I—”

Combeferre was already hoisting him off the sofa to his feet, “Grantaire, yeah?”

“Yes! Is this meant to be funny? Because—"

“Does that look like Grantaire to you?”

He looked up to where Combeferre was pointing and froze.

There was a bloody bandage wrapped tightly around a mass of matted blond curls, a bloodshot black eye staring back at him. He was still wearing the cycling shorts.

Combeferre studied his face, growing concerned, “Enj?”

“No, no.” Grantaire stammered, and lifted his finger to gesture at the mirror, “no, that’s not me.”

“Christ, how hard did you hit your head?”

“No, listen,” Grantaire held tightly onto the lapel of his shirt, “Combeferre, it’s me, it’s Grantaire. I’m not Enjolras, you have to listen.”

Combeferre rubbed his back soothingly and sat him back on the sofa, “try to get some rest. I’ll bring you some juice.”

“I don’t ne—Combeferre..” he was pleading now, “Combeferre, its’s _me._ ”

“I get it.” Combeferre pushed him so he was lying on his back, “go to sleep, you’re alright.”

 

Grantaire waited until Combeferre had brought him some apple juice and disappeared into the shared office before he pulled himself up to stand.

It quickly dawned on him that he did _not_ live here. The walls were a steel grey, adorned with jet black picture frames of various photographs that his tired eyes couldn’t focus on, the wrap around sofa he had just been spread across was a darker grey, with a navy blanket scrunched up near one of the arms. Opposite him was a huge bookcase, shelves built into the wall and almost baying under the weight of so many encyclopaedias. Grantaire had never read an encyclopaedia in his life. This was not his flat.

He blinked hard, as though he would somehow be transported home, but remained exactly where he was, swaying slightly as the blood rushed to his head. Planting one foot and then the other firmly on the floor, he wobbled to the left, and nudged open a door already ajar.

Where his bedroom would have been was, unsurprisingly, a completely different room. The bed was in the centre, resting against a wall of exposed brick, starched white sheets contrasting with the navy of the other three walls. The room was quite empty, save a tatty bookcase with books that had clearly been read one too many times and were consequently falling apart. He shook his head in disbelief and leant on the shelf closest to him with his elbow. A picture frame threatened to topple at the sudden shift in weight, and he caught it with the tips of his fingers. His breath caught in his throat, and he listened carefully. When he was sure Combeferre hadn’t heard, he let out a shaky exhale and repositioned the picture.

It was a faded family photo, but he had never seen the family before. A hard-faced man sat on a wicker chair and stared into the camera, a shock of brown hair slicked over his forehead. His glasses were so clean that it didn’t look as though they had any lenses. The woman stood behind him, smiling proudly. Her teeth were unnaturally white, and her hair was piled seemingly haphazardly on top of her head. Grantaire thought she would have been very beautiful had life, or perhaps her husband, been kinder to her. On the man’s lap was a small child of about three. He had a mess of curly golden hair, and he was smiling too, baby teeth and all. His smile was not proud, it was just gleeful. His father did not touch him, nor his wife, letting his arms hang limp by his sides. The little boy had his hands tucked in his lap, a plaster just visible on his upper arm.

He tore his eyes away and over to the wardrobe. He was glad there didn’t seem to be any more mirrors. The doors were stiff, as though they weren’t opened often, and the clothes inside were folded with the precision of a machine. Grantaire mused briefly over the invention of a clothes-folding machine, and then returned his attention to getting dressed. After searching for the loosest things he could find, he eventually yanked on a black hoodie and some grey pyjama bottoms, discarding the shorts and blazer in a crumpled heap by the door. He couldn’t see any shoes, so left without them.

The street upon which he stumbled was foreign and unfamiliar. The pavement was clean, proving that it definitely was not his neighbourhood, and there didn’t seem to be any cars around. The people passing him on the street all raised their eyebrows, and a few tried to talk to him, but he pushed them away and kept walking. He had travelled roughly half a mile when he began to recognise his surroundings. A vegan café, an overpriced winery, a florist. He had a vague recollection of the area and pressed on until he found himself standing at the back of the Musain.

From there, he took a sharp right down a winding alley and under a footbridge. He soon arrived at his building and sighed with relief. He was sure that once he had had a good sleep, this whole weird nightmare would be over.

The lift was perpetually broken, so Grantaire took the stairs like always, even though the exercise made his head throb.

“Good morning,” he greeted Montparnasse, who glared at him and said nothing.

He frowned but kept climbing until he reached his floor and saw that his front door was wide open.

“Oh shit.” He cursed and rubbed his good eye with the back of his hand. He was not in any state for a confrontation.

 

“Hello?” He called, feeling strange knocking on his own door. There were voices from his bedroom, and he felt sick as footsteps approached. Joly came into view, and he smiled questioningly.

“Uh, hi?” Joly said, confused, and wiping his hands on his jeans, “What are you doing here?”

“What am I… what are _you_ doing here?” Grantaire asked, an edge of frustration in his voice.

“He’s awake!”

Joly moved quicker than Grantaire had ever seen him, and he followed slowly, utterly disorientated by this point.

 

Joly was bent over his bed, nursing something or someone, Éponine was clutching a bowl that appeared to be filled with vomit. Grantaire shuddered, and she turned to look at him, her face twisting first in confusion, then in anger.

“J.” She said quietly, tilting her head towards Grantaire stood in the doorway. Joly simply nodded and continued to fuss over his patient.

“Éponine,” Grantaire attempted, “if you’ve been trying to get a hold of me, I have no idea where my phone is. I think—”

“Why would I want to text _you_?” She scoffed, shoving past him to get into the kitchen.

“Uhh…”

“I didn’t know you knew Éponine.” Joly hummed, throwing a wet towel on the floor.

Grantaire moved towards him, “she’s my best…” he saw who was in his bed, “friend…”

Staring right back at him was, well, him.

 

 

It took Joly, Éponine, and one of his neighbours who he was fairly sure was called Bradley to wrestle him to the floor and stop him from screaming.

“Enjolras, it’s okay, you’re alright. You’re safe.” Joly kept repeating, but Grantaire recoiled each time, fighting against the image in front of him.

When his body could not physically relent anymore, he collapsed, and his breathing grew shallow. Joly checked his pulse and temperature, before propping Grantaire against the wall. He knelt in front of him.

“Enjolras?”

Grantaire shook his head, “I’m going insane.”

“Hey, no.” Joly said soothingly, and reached out to take one of Grantaire’s in his own, “you’ve both had a bad accident, but you’re on the mend. I promise.”

He snatched his hand away and used it to motion to his bed, “whoever that is, that’s not Grantaire. _I’m_ Grantaire. Me. Not him.”

Éponine joined Joly on the floor, “listen to me. You hit your head. You’ll be alright. Who should we call to get you?”

Grantaire was exasperated, “no, _you_ listen. I live here. This is my bedroom in my apartment in my building.” He pointed at her, “and you’re _my_ best friend.”

“Enjolras..” Joly tried gently, but Grantaire screwed his eyes shut and thudded his head back against the wall. Pain shot along the side of his head where the stitches were digging into his scalp, and he winced.

“What?”

They all turned to face the bed, expressions identical.

Whoever was in bed grumbled, “did someone say something?”

Grantaire’s heart thumped, “Enjolras?”

“What do you want?”

“Oh..” Éponine’s eyes widened and she brought a hand up to her mouth in shock.

“My god.” Joly finished, his gaze flicking between the bed and Grantaire.

 

 

Nobody had ever heard Enjolras scream before. Shout, yes. Bellow, sure. But scream? Definitely not. His eyes were locked onto Grantaire, and his mouth was open for around three seconds before his voice cracked up six octaves and he shrieked. Éponine ushered Grantaire out of the room and into the kitchen, pulling out a chair for him at the dining table. Enjolras continued to scream.

“Is this meant to be a joke?”

“What?” Grantaire furrowed his brow, “no. Of course not. I’ve been asking myself that all day!”

Éponine placed her head in her hands and ran her fingers through a section of hair.

“You’re Grantaire.”

“Yes.”

“And that, _him_ , in there. That’s Enjolras.”

Grantaire nodded.

“But you’re.. you know.” She gestured at him, “and he’s…”

“Ep, I have no idea what’s going on. Yesterday was crazy, and today is even worse. I don’t know.”

“But… you sound like him. You don’t sound like Grantaire.”

“I’m Grantaire.” He said emphatically, and tugged one of her hands into his own, “How can I prove it?”

She sighed, “I don’t know. My brain is fried right now. I’m so lost.”

“When you first met Marius, you found him so attractive that you dribbled chocolate milk down yourself.”

“Marius could have told you that.” She pointed out, and Grantaire thought harder.

“Your favourite colour is purple.”

Éponine looked down at her purple sweatshirt, and back up at him, one eyebrow raised, “too obvious.”

Grantaire rocked back on his chair, then grinned, “when I asked you how to find inner peace, you said you’d try to find her Instagram.”

Éponine spat out a laugh, and hid her face in her hands, “I didn’t know what you meant.”

“I told you it’s me.” He was smiling now, and Eponine smiled back.

“I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do about this.”

“Me neither,” he admitted, and rubbed his chest lightly, “do I look hot?”

She swatted him with her free hand, “shut up.”

“No, seriously. I know I’m all banged up, but do I?”

“I mean… you look like Enjolras.” She scrunched her nose up, “so, like, I guess?”

“Do you think it’s just my face?”

“Uhh, well you look different. Your body that is. You’re smaller.” She mimed holding his shoulders, “Kind of here.”

He mulled this over, and smirked, “I know this is bad timing, and he’s screaming right now, but…”

“Don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”

He ignored her, “If it’s _my_ body, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“R, it’s not yours. It’s his. That’s the point.”

He stood up from the table, and moved to the door, “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Sit down.”

“No, I really need to.”

“You’re disgusting, you know that?”

“I’m just going to the toilet!” He laughed, holding up his hands.

“We both know what you’re going to do. And I’m going to tell Enjolras.”

“Oh, you mean now? As he screams like a banshee? Yeah, good idea Ep, that’ll totally calm him down. Really sooth his nerves.”

She slumped down and rested her head on the table, “if you’re not out in five minutes, I’m telling him.”

“Five minutes is more than enough.”

 

He locked the bathroom door behind him carefully and pulled off the pyjama bottoms. His legs were tanned, as he had expected, and covered in fine, dark blond hair. Minding he didn’t bump his head, he removed his hoodie, and studied himself in the mirror. For the first time in, well… forever, he could see his ribs through the skin, and he pushed them gently. His gaze travelled up to his face, or, should we say, Enjolras’ face, and he splashed some water onto his black eye. There was blood caked into his curls, staining them a dark brown instead of the famous gold linked only to Enjolras’ name. His jaw was sharp, and his teeth were white. It occurred to him that he had never seen Enjolras’ teeth, not properly, so he pulled his mouth open with two fingers and stuck out his tongue. A knock at the door interrupted him, and he jumped, startled.

“Time to come out, perv.”

“Alright, alright.” He chuckled, quickly yanking his clothes back on, although this was slowed somewhat when he caught his left foot in the leg of the pyjamas.

“Has he stopped screaming yet?” he called as he unlocked the door, but Éponine was not waiting outside.

“Ep?”

“What the fuck have you done?”

He swivelled and saw himself, eyes blazing.

“Woah,” he backed down the corridor, “listen, you need to sit down or something, seriously.”

“Tell me what you’ve done to me.”

“I didn’t do anything! You think this is easy for me too? Everyone thinks I’m you!”

Enjolras spat on the floor, “I don’t know how you did this, but you need to undo it. Give…”

“Give what?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow, suddenly confident, “give your body back? In case you hadn’t noticed,” he gestured in front of him, “mine is currently inhabited, otherwise I would.”

Enjolras moved to shove him, but was caught by Joly, arms pinned behind his back.

“Ok, ok. Come on. Back to bed. You’re alright.” He repeated, as Enjolras writhed and squirmed.

“Hey, Enjolras.” Grantaire shouted down the corridor just as he was being forced through the door. His head turned and Grantaire licked his lips, “if you’ve ever wanted to see me naked, now’s your chance.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Who else knows?”

“Well,” Grantaire scratched his chin, which felt strange as Enjolras was completely clean-shaven, “I’ve told Courf, and Combeferre. Oh, and Marius. But they just thought I was concussed.”

“Which you are.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean. They didn’t believe me.”

Éponine locked her elbows, palms flat on the table, and leant against them, “I don’t know what to believe,” she sighed, “this is just..”

“It’s a lot.” Grantaire smiled, “I know. I’m still not 100% convinced I’m awake.”

She laughed, “yeah. Me neither.”

“Grantaire,” Joly appeared in the doorway, holding his mobile in one hand, “it’s Combeferre. He’s coming to get you.”

“Uh..” Éponine pursed her lips, “are we sure that’s the best idea right now?”

Joly shrugged, “I tried to tell him not to, but he was already in the car.”

Grantaire huffed and stood up from his chair, “I need to get some shoes, then.”

“Yeah, good one Bigfoot. Like your grimy shoes are going to fit Enjolras’ feet.”

“Oh.” Grantaire admittedly had not thought about that, “Wait. I have to be Enjolras?”

Eponine stared at him blankly, “uh, duh?”

“No, no.” His head began to ache again, “No. I can’t do that. No, no, n—”

“Ok, shut up.” She held his shoulders with both hands and pushed him back down, “Listen to me. You are going to get into Combeferre’s car, and big up your concussion. Hold your head, whine, cry, I don’t care, do whatever. And tomorrow you’re going to tell Courfeyrac and Marius that you feel much better.” She shook him, “You have to make this believable.”

“I—”

“No. People already think you’re crazy right now, you don’t want to get both of you locked up in hospital. Trust me on this.”

“Éponine,” he cut through, “I have no idea what he’s like outside the meetings. I don’t know him!”

“Then make it up!” She was getting annoyed, “You’ve had a head injury, people do weird shit when that happens. Just.. I don’t know. Just promise me you’ll try.”

“I…” he sucked in a deep breath, “yeah. Alright. I promise.”

She pulled him into a hug, “this is weird. You smell different.”

“By different do you mean clean?”

Éponine laughed, “something like that.”

The buzzer rang, and Grantaire’s heart almost fell through him.

“Don’t panic. I’m going to walk you out. Remember: you’re Enjolras for the time being.”

 

“Hey,” Combeferre greeted, leaning back against the car, “I was worried about you.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire gave a small smile, “I just needed some air.”

Éponine made general chitchat as she opened the passenger door and helped Grantaire to buckle himself in.

“Remember what I said?” she asked quietly in his ear, and he nodded.

He waved as they pulled away, and she waved back, before going back inside to what Grantaire presumed was bedlam.

“How’s the head?”

Grantaire remained focussed on the outside world zooming past, “it hurts.”

Combeferre chuckled, “Marius said you were in a right state. How’d you manage that?”

“Don’t remember.” Grantaire shifted in his seat, his eyes were growing heavy.

“Weird thing right,” Combeferre slowed the car, “but Joly said Grantaire had a similar sort of accident, same time and everything. I hope he’s feeling alright. Did you see him?”

“No.”

 

The car was parked, and Combeferre held onto Grantaire as he got out of the car.

“I think you should sleep, you still seem quite out of it.”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire was hyper aware of the fact that he was _not_ Enjolras, and consequently felt like he couldn’t muster any more than three words in a single sentence. He couldn’t give himself away.

As they stepped into the overly-mirrored lift, Grantaire kept his eyes down, staring at his grubby socked feet. He made a mental note to change them. Combeferre was talking, but nothing was really being absorbed, and soon enough the bell chimed, and the doors parted.

“Are you going to be okay changing?” Combeferre asked, unlocking the front door, and holding it open, “I can help if you need it.”

Grantaire shook his head firmly, “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Alright, you know where I am if you need anything. Goodnight.”

Grantaire didn’t respond, instead flicking the tab on his lock. He pressed his back against the bedroom door and closed his eyes.

Enjolras’ room was exactly how he had seen it the day before, and he sat heavily down on the bed to remove his dirty socks. The mattress was softer than he imagined it would be, but it was nice. The sheets had either just been changed, or Enjolras never slept in them, which (knowing him) wasn’t such a stretch.

 

He rolled himself under the sheets, still mainly dressed, and stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t noticed before, but there were glow in the dark stars and planets shining back at him, and he smiled to himself.

His thoughts slowed, flowed lazily in and out of his brain, and he accepted them as they came. He thought about the accident, about what Enjolras’ accident could have been, about his friends and their reactions. He thought about Enjolras most of all, and how awful it must have been to wake up in a battered, disgusting body. He closed his eyes. How awful it was to live in it.

 

“No, shh! Leave him.”

He opened his eyes, blearily half-aware of his surroundings, a faint throbbing echoing in the back of his head. His door was ajar, and he heard socks shuffling in the doorway.

“Sorry,” Marius mumbled, opening the door a little wider, “we weren’t sure if you were awake.”

Grantaire smiled, stretching himself, “I’m up. Don’t worry.”

Courfeyrac was at his side, perching softly on the edge of his bed, as though he might tip Grantaire over.

“How’s the uhh..” he motioned to his own head, looking sheepish, “any better?”

Grantaire looped a finger around a blond curl and nodded, “much better. Thank you.”

Marius put a hand gently over his, “when you’re ready, we have a nice day planned. You’ve got a lot of people waiting to see you.”

 

The chatter of such a large group was making Grantaire uneasy, something he wasn’t used to. He felt anxiety stir in his stomach like a roll of thunder. Combeferre had an easy arm slung over his shoulder, he supposed it was to grant a sense of protection, but it made him feel worse. He shifted on the sofa, and Joly caught his eye.

‘Everything alright?’ he mouthed, and Grantaire nodded slowly, eyes cast downwards.

A knock on the door interrupted his chaotic thoughts, and his gaze flew to the entryway, startled.

“Thought you’d never make it!” Bahorel yelled, grinning. He leapt to his feet and collided with an obscured figure. There was a muffled noise, and Grantaire watched as he himself was pulled into the room. Enjolras had arrived. And he looked angry.

“Alright, R? How’s the head?” Courfeyrac asked, standing up to give him a warm hug.

“Never had any complaints.” Enjolras mumbled, and Grantaire caught Joly chuckle into his cup. They’d clearly been practising.

“What’d you do, you daft sod?” Bahorel play-punched his arm, and Enjolras winced.

“A crack on the back of the head. Nothing major. I’m fine.”

This earnt him a swift clap on the back from Bossuet, and a scowl shot at Grantaire.

“May I speak with you in the kitchen?” He asked, lips pressed firmly together. Grantaire swallowed hard and nodded, following him and trying to ignore the taunts.

“I didn’t realise he was so posh, weirdo.” Someone snorted.

 

“Wha—”

“Shut up!” Enjolras hissed, a hand in the air. He rolled up one of his jumper sleeves, and Grantaire’s eyes widened as he saw fresh bruises. His blood ran cold.

“You didn’t.”

“What the fuck, Grantaire! What the fuck.”

“Enj, please..” He stumbled forward, gripping his shoulders, “please, tell me you didn’t.”

Enjolras’ eyes were black with rage, and hurt, and disappointment.

“If you needed money, you... why didn’t you ask?”

Grantaire stared back at him, face twisted with shame, nothing to say and a heavy heart.

Enjolras’ voice lowered, “those people in there,” he pointed to the closed door, “they love you. They would have helped get you out of this… this—this mess!”

He felt the tears of embarrassment spill onto his cheeks and wiped blindly, silent. Enjolras continued.

“Or at least,” he paced the kitchen now, “you could have had the decency to tell me! Oh, just so you know Enjolras,” he jabbed Grantaire hard in the chest, “you’ve got to have sex for money every now and then to tide things over. Jesus fucking Christ!”

“I—I didn’t know, I… I didn’t think!”

“Of course, you didn’t think, you never do! All you’re good for, as I’ve learnt in the past six hours, is getting fucked by strangers in a public bathroom in order to pay your rent.”

He glared at Grantaire with such venom that it felt as though the world was imploding, shoving past him to put a hand on the door handle. Grantaire wanted to punch a hole in the wall, to bite through his tongue, to tell everyone the truth, and then kill someone. He wanted to rot so loudly that nobody would be able to ignore it. But he didn’t. He stood still, and watched as someone else suffered in his place.

“And by the way, you’re covered for the next three months.” Enjolras spat, slamming the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

“Is everything alright?” Joly asked, peering around the kitchen door. He had watched Enjolras storm off, slamming the front door behind him.

Grantaire swallowed thickly and shook his head. “No. No it’s really not.”

“Okay.” Was all Joly needed to say, sliding into the room and closing the door gently behind him. He opened his arms as Grantaire fell forward, desperate for reassurance.

“We don’t have to talk,” he continued, “but if you want to, I’m right here.”

Grantaire didn’t want to talk. So instead, they stood together in the kitchen, Joly’s gaze focussed on the plants nestled in the window sill, and Grantaire’s eyes tight shut.

 

Sometime later, he wasn’t sure when, Combeferre knocked on the door, suggesting they leave.

“Are you alright, Enj?” He pushed his glasses up his nose as he stepped forward, “is it your head?”

“He needs a rest.” Joly covered, squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder, “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Grantaire nodded and allowed Combeferre to wrap a jacket haphazardly around his shoulders before being led to the car.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Combeferre began after he’d strapped him in, “but what happened in the kitchen? Grantaire was livid. He walked straight out.”

“He… he was just being, you know, Grantaire. Annoying and useless and obnoxious and—”

“Woah,” he laughed, “I knew you didn’t like him, but I didn’t know it was _that_ bad.”

Something twisted inside Grantaire when he heard this. He said nothing but nodded and turned to face out of the window. They travelled in silence the rest of the way home.

 

Once in the safety of Enjolras’ bedroom, Grantaire took of all the foreign clothes he was wearing. He walked on his tiptoes across the floor. He took the scissors from the pencil pot on Enjolras’ desk and uncoiled a curl from his fringe. Closing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath, he cut. The hair fell from his hand and he stared at it, in a mix of horror and pride. He was taking control. Enjolras didn’t like him, and he didn’t like himself – that he couldn’t control. But this? This he could. The sick desire got the better of him and he hacked and chopped until his arms began to ache. He didn’t bother looking in the mirror. Reaching over to the phone he had thrown on the bed, he dialled Joly.

“Hello?”

“Joly,” he said flatly, “I need to go to church.”

He could hear Joly thinking through the crackle of the reception, “well… I don’t think any church is open right now.”

“What time do churches open?”

“I—wait. Let me check.”

He said something away from the receiver, and disappeared for almost a minute.

“Are you still there?” he asked suddenly, and Grantaire looked up into nothing, “yep.”

“The nearest one opens at 7 tomorrow. Do you want me to come?”

“No thanks.”

He hung up and slouched backwards against some pillows. The clock beside his head flashed 23:42 at him. He stared and stared at it until the numbers blurred into one and his eyelids fell closed.

 

Before the sunlight of the new morning could stream into the room, Grantaire rolled down the blinds. He had found a shirt and some charcoal trousers in the depths of Enjolras’ wardrobe and cursed the way they smelt so strongly of him. Pulling on mismatching socks and some grubby running trainers, he glanced at the clock. 6:16. He shrugged to himself and decided he didn’t need a coat.

 

The church was small, and on the corner of a main road. He had driven past it a lot of times on the way to university, but had never paused to take it in. It was unusual, bottle-green painted bricks and a big white door. He couldn’t see any windows, and there was a crudely drawn black cross on the side wall. He pushed on the door, expecting it to resist, but instead he stumbled into a dimly lit room.

“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet.” A voice said from far in front of him.

He blinked twice, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and saw a tall man dressed in black. His dog collar was illuminated by the candles he was lighting.

“I have to talk.”

“We—”

Grantaire clenched his fist, “No, I have to talk now.”

The man, who he assumed was a vicar, stopped, and blew out the match he held in his left hand. He motioned for Grantaire to walk towards him and sat down on the front row of the pews.

Grantaire sat awkwardly beside him, and kept his eyes trained on the ground.

“What was it that you needed to talk about?” The vicar had a soft voice, one people associate with primary school teachers.

“I know it’s a sin for me to kiss boys, so I kiss girls like people say I should. But I only think of kissing him. Is that just as much of a sin? And—and sometimes men have sex with me. Not because I want to, but I have to. I need the money. Does that mean I’ll go to Hell? Only my mother, she.. she said that I’m sick and I’ll burn, but somehow that doesn’t seem so bad if he’s burning alongside me. But he _isn’t_ and—”

“Listen,” the vicar said in almost a whisper, “you are a child of the Lord. You were made to love who you love, just as He loves you. He will forgive, just as you must forgive your mother. She is mistaken about God’s intentions.”

“Thank you.” Grantaire interrupted, standing up abruptly, “I have to go now.”

The vicar made a move to stop him but decided against it. He watched him leave, sadness in his eyes.

As Grantaire pushed open the heavy door and allowed the crowd outside to flood in, he turned to look behind him. They made eye contact, and he forced a half-smile, cut off by the door shutting.

 

While walking, he pulled out his phone. He tapped absentmindedly through Enjolras’ notifications, dutifully ignoring the requests of a family meal, and typed in his own number. It stung a little that Enjolras didn’t have his contact saved.

“Yes?” Enjolras’ voice was groggy, and it was obvious that he had just woken up.

“Get up.” Grantaire instructed, surprising even himself with the sternness, “I have to talk to you.”

“And you want to talk at…ten past seven?”

“I cut most of your hair off.”

The line went dead almost immediately, and Grantaire bit back a laugh. He texted Enjolras the address of a small park and waited.

 

Grantaire heard the ‘oh my fucking god’ before he saw him. He braced for impact. Enjolras was dressed in a baggy green sweatshirt, jeans that were slightly too short, and slippers. He looked furious.

“Is this a joke?” He exploded, yanking at Grantaire’s head, “oh my god. It’s actually gone. Do you know how long that took to grow? Oh, it’s all messy and different lengths. _Grantaire!_ ”

Grantaire put both hands on Enjolras’ abdomen and pushed him away, though grabbed his hand as he tripped backwards. Enjolras looked sullen.

“You know, the day my dad left us, I stood by my mother while her blood ran out warm down the drive and the entire sky shuddered with grief. But the night before, I leant against him as he laughed and warmed the whole table, as he passed the salt to her and kissed her hand. He was so firm beside me and I had a juice stain on my sleeve and spinach stuck on my teeth and sunburnt cheeks and dirt underneath my fingernails. He was so permanent. And then he put one arm around her and the conversation dissipated. And he told her he was leaving.”

Enjolras stood, swaying gently as he took that in. His face was a combination of pity and confusion. He opened his mouth to interject, but Grantaire shook his head.

“Sometimes I think about him. About the sound of his rusted pickup truck carrying itself down the road away from us, leaving us choking in the smoke. About how he came back once but found me kissing another boy at eighteen. He’s not been back since.”

“Grantaire…” Enjolras whispered, reaching forward to brush a rescued curl from his eyes. He refused to look up, “he’ll be back.”

“I had a dream once, a few years ago. He was at the edge of a poppy field, and I stumbled over to him, but he was talking to someone else. Someone I couldn’t see. He kept complaining that his neck ached and that he was ready to go to the place beyond. The place beyond all places.”

Enjolras tilted his head to the side and moved to sit next to Grantaire on the park bench.

“I found out the next morning that he had hanged himself. He couldn’t cope with the fact that I’m… that I like… you know. Boys _and_ girls.”

“Oh, Grantaire.” Enjolras was moved by a sudden rush of sympathy and drew him into an uncharacteristically tight embrace. He spoke softly into his neck, “it’s not your fault, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not.”

He shrugged, and Enjolras let go reluctantly, “What I want to say is.. that I know you don’t believe in this,” he gestured at nothing, “this stuff. But that I do. And I want you to go to Heaven.”

Enjolras frowned, “okay?”

“Don’t, um, don’t do that again. The thing to pay my rent. Please. You are so pure, and you’d be so welcomed there, and I don’t want to ruin your chance. You can still get in.”

“But what about you?”

Grantaire felt as though his throat was glued with cough syrup, “I don’t think I’ll be allowed that far.”

His chin was lifted by one of Enjolras’ fingers, and he finally met his eyes. Enjolras’ expression was one of reassurance as he took one of his hands.

“You can go as far as you like. I know there’s at least one man there, in the place beyond all places like you said, who will hold your shoulders, kiss your cheek, and tell you that you were worth the pain that must always come before redemption.”

His eyes were full of tears before he could wipe them away, and he smiled, “do you think?”

Enjolras smiled back, “yes, definitely. And I’ll be right there with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell I went to a christian school lmao


End file.
